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Authors: Patrick Robinson
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the cruelest of hands.
There would be countless reasons why poor Yousaf, broken-hearted Ibrahim, blameless Ben, and innocent Abu should be freed instantly, with massive apologies from the White House, and sufficient reparation money to keep them living like rajahs for the next ten thousand years.
At 4:15 p.m. Joshua Epstein summoned his team into the inner sanctum of his office, the most secure room in the entire building—except for the listening device that had been planted in the base of his desk lamp—a mini-bug powerful enough to re-route U.S. baseball scores to the International Space Station, never mind the blue van parked outside the front door.
James Myerson, a thirty-five-year-old New Englander from Gloucester, Massachusetts, would head up the operation. Myerson had been made a partner after a sensational two years of almost superhuman billing that averaged seventy-eight hours a week, putting him at close to $40,000 a week, or $2 million annually. The incredible ambition of this unmarried graduate of Yale Law School placed him a cut above his peers, and the most important briefs from the Arab world were always offered first to him.
Most people get better with practice, and with each passing month, James had grown to know and understand the Arab psyche more thoroughly. Over and over, James had gained the release of Guantanamo’s prisoners, mostly those held on questionable grounds. These days Arab clients usually requested James, and to Josh Bernstein’s mind, this was outstanding. And now James was about to be offered the most important case he had ever argued.
“You must get these guys out of that jail, and send them on their way,” Epstein told James after a briefing. “Because that will gain us the gratitude and respect of the entire Middle East. Usual rules, low profile, deep research, and iron-clad arguments.”
According to the brief, which had emanated in Saudi Arabia, via Islamabad and Peshawar, his concern was with Yousaf and Ibrahim. Only the listening Mossad knew that his client list would soon double, because al-Qaeda would surely demand the release of the two mountain men, plus their Palestinian best friends, Ben and Abu.
The third man in the room was Tom Renton, the twenty-nine-year-old son of a North Carolina army colonel and a former judge advocate general who had presided as chief adviser over numerous disciplinary cases where standards had apparently fallen short of those required by the U.S. armed services.
Tom’s father was an expert on all forms of military legality, had advised the United Nations, and was considered an authority on the Geneva Conventions and Protocols. He understood the complex ramifications of men fighting in civilian clothes, and the illegality of such actions during which they identified themselves neither to their enemy, nor the public at large. Generally speaking Colonel Renton handed out short shrift to these international hooligans. Tom had attended a challenging law school in North Carolina, but the one at home in Raleigh was even more so, with the colonel drilling into his son the ramifications of surrender, capture, brutal actions against civilians, treaties, legal definitions of armed forces, guerilla fighters, and prisoners of war and their rights. Tom also learned much about military tribunals, courts-martial, and civilian courts involved in military matters.
But Justice Kennedy had hammered out a brand new set of rules, codes, and standards, and both Tom Renton and James Myerson had been engrossed in them for weeks. Tomorrow morning, subject to the acquisition of the correct papers and visas, both would put their considerable intellects and experiences to the test.
There was a wide smile upon the slightly sweaty face of Joshua Epstein as his boys prepared for the opening assault on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, right there on Third Street and Constitution Avenue, one block from the Capitol. He handed them the
There would be countless reasons why poor Yousaf, broken-hearted Ibrahim, blameless Ben, and innocent Abu should be freed instantly, with massive apologies from the White House, and sufficient reparation money to keep them living like rajahs for the next ten thousand years.
At 4:15 p.m. Joshua Epstein summoned his team into the inner sanctum of his office, the most secure room in the entire building—except for the listening device that had been planted in the base of his desk lamp—a mini-bug powerful enough to re-route U.S. baseball scores to the International Space Station, never mind the blue van parked outside the front door.
James Myerson, a thirty-five-year-old New Englander from Gloucester, Massachusetts, would head up the operation. Myerson had been made a partner after a sensational two years of almost superhuman billing that averaged seventy-eight hours a week, putting him at close to $40,000 a week, or $2 million annually. The incredible ambition of this unmarried graduate of Yale Law School placed him a cut above his peers, and the most important briefs from the Arab world were always offered first to him.
Most people get better with practice, and with each passing month, James had grown to know and understand the Arab psyche more thoroughly. Over and over, James had gained the release of Guantanamo’s prisoners, mostly those held on questionable grounds. These days Arab clients usually requested James, and to Josh Bernstein’s mind, this was outstanding. And now James was about to be offered the most important case he had ever argued.
“You must get these guys out of that jail, and send them on their way,” Epstein told James after a briefing. “Because that will gain us the gratitude and respect of the entire Middle East. Usual rules, low profile, deep research, and iron-clad arguments.”
According to the brief, which had emanated in Saudi Arabia, via Islamabad and Peshawar, his concern was with Yousaf and Ibrahim. Only the listening Mossad knew that his client list would soon double, because al-Qaeda would surely demand the release of the two mountain men, plus their Palestinian best friends, Ben and Abu.
The third man in the room was Tom Renton, the twenty-nine-year-old son of a North Carolina army colonel and a former judge advocate general who had presided as chief adviser over numerous disciplinary cases where standards had apparently fallen short of those required by the U.S. armed services.
Tom’s father was an expert on all forms of military legality, had advised the United Nations, and was considered an authority on the Geneva Conventions and Protocols. He understood the complex ramifications of men fighting in civilian clothes, and the illegality of such actions during which they identified themselves neither to their enemy, nor the public at large. Generally speaking Colonel Renton handed out short shrift to these international hooligans. Tom had attended a challenging law school in North Carolina, but the one at home in Raleigh was even more so, with the colonel drilling into his son the ramifications of surrender, capture, brutal actions against civilians, treaties, legal definitions of armed forces, guerilla fighters, and prisoners of war and their rights. Tom also learned much about military tribunals, courts-martial, and civilian courts involved in military matters.
But Justice Kennedy had hammered out a brand new set of rules, codes, and standards, and both Tom Renton and James Myerson had been engrossed in them for weeks. Tomorrow morning, subject to the acquisition of the correct papers and visas, both would put their considerable intellects and experiences to the test.
There was a wide smile upon the slightly sweaty face of Joshua Epstein as his boys prepared for the opening assault on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, right there on Third Street and Constitution Avenue, one block from the Capitol. He handed them the
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